Protection
by IluvMarkSalling
Summary: No matter how many times Miles pushes Charlie away, she always comes back with that optimism of hers, and unconditional adoration for her uncle. Miles and Charlie talk after 1x14. A missing scene, in my opinion.


**A/N: In my opinion this was a missing scene from 1x14, so I decided to write it.**

"I'm not going anywhere."

Miles didn't bother looking up from the fire, and just sipped his whiskey. The dull burn of the liquor helped to numb the raw, stinging pain of the night's events.

"Kid, I figured that out a long time ago," he replied dryly.

Charlie sat beside him on the log, and stared at him expectantly. With a sigh, Miles reluctantly looked at her, meeting her clear blue eyes.

"What I mean is, you can't push me away," Charlie said. "Yeah, it bothers me who you were; but Miles, you aren't that person anymore. You abandoned your bar and came with me. You walked over a thousand miles, fighting off bounty hunters and militia to get Danny back. You came all the way to Georgia, just so some people you don't even know don't get blown up. You've proved to everyone, especially yourself that you aren't the general of the militia anymore."

"You're idealistic and naïve, Charlie," Miles said. "You don't know half the things I did as general. I will never be able to right the wrongs I've done."

Miles sighed and took another swig from his flask.

"I shouldn't even stick around," he muttered. "I'm not good for you, or any of these people. I promised your mom that I'd keep you safe. All I do is just keep getting you into trouble."

"Okay, so maybe you can't make up for the things you did, but you can choose to be better now. You already have. Please don't leave, uncle Miles. I need you. I- I love you."

Miles froze, feeling an uncharacteristic warmth spreading through his body. Was it the whiskey? No, this was something else. He couldn't put a name to it, but it was wonderful to be loved in a way that wasn't some clingy, drunken hookup. This was the unconditional love of his family. That was enough to make him want to fight for something. Fight for the rebels. Fight, so he could abolish the militia, restore democracy, and have some semblance of a life with his family.

Miles tossed his flask on the ground beside him, and clapped a hand on Charlie's knee. He smiled, for once letting his gruff exterior fade.

"I love you too, Charlie."

Miles unclipped the knife sheath from his belt, and weighed it in his palm for a moment, staring down at the worn leather, and running his thumb over the handle of his grandfather's knife.

"This knife was my grandfather's," Miles said. "He took it overseas, and when he made it back home alive, it became a good luck charm. So, he gave it to my father, who took it with him on his tour of duty. He came back alive. When I shipped off to Afghanistan, it was passed down to me."

Miles sighed, and looked over at his niece. Charlie, with her youth, and desire to know of the past, was entranced with the story. It reminded him of when Charlie was little, and she hung on to every word he said. In fact, she hung on to him in general. He remembered how Charlie was always being carried by him in some form, whether it was a piggy back, or on his shoulders, or hanging off his then massive bicep. She worshiped him, and he loved her for it.

"Charlie, I can't protect you all the time," Miles continued. It hurt to say those words. The summer Charlie was three, Miles visited her, pregnant Rachel, and Ben. They went up to his parents' cottage, and Miles taught Charlie to swim. He remembered how scared Charlie was. Miles had looked in to her little face, and promised that he wouldn't let anything bad happen to her. Charlie then jumped off the dock into the lake, and into Miles' open arms. Seventeen years later, Miles had broken that promise, and it killed him.

"Hard as I try," Miles continued, breaking his train of thought. "I'm only one man, and you always find trouble anyway. So, as a good luck charm, here."

Miles held the knife out to Charlie, who slowly took it, looking touched.

"Are you sure?" Charlie asked, her eyes wide.

"Look, I may not be your dad, but you're still my kid. I want you to have it."

Charlie smiled. "Thank you, uncle Miles," she whispered.

Miles nodded to himself, watching Charlie examine her new knife. After nearly eight years out of the Matheson line it had finally returned, and there was no one Miles would rather own it. The knife was lucky, and Miles needed to make sure that Charlie was protected. Not for Ben, not for Rachel, but for himself. After all, they were family.

**Let me know what you think**


End file.
